


Shame

by tristinai



Series: Actiones secundum fidei [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drunken sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Secret Relationship, Self-Loathing, cullrian - Freeform, hints of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:05:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: It took many firsts before Dorian realized it could not last.





	Shame

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a heads up: this is not a happy fic. A lot of my writing in the last few years has explored relationships that lacked emotional fulfillment, resulting in characters using sex in either a manipulative or distracting manner as a means of avoiding their greatest enemy: themselves. I wanted to try something different than a lot of the other Cullrian fics I have come across so I thought of how a secret, Tevinter-style relationship could play out between Cullen and Dorian, all centered around the idea of shame. 
> 
> This is me trying my hand at Dragon Age fanfic. Any and all mistakes are my own since this has not been beta read by anyone. I also play a lot with the timeline since I had at least twenty hours of side questing between core events in the game. Please adhere to the tags and the warnings and feel free to leave a comment if you decide to give this story a chance.

The first time Dorian becomes aware of Cullen's attraction was on a rather uneventful day in the Skyhold garden.

With the Inquisitor off to the Emerald Graves, accompanied by Solas, Bull, and Sera, Dorian found himself confined at the stronghold and took the time to continue his research into Corypheus' identity. But long days and nights spent pouring through ancient Tevene texts in his corner of the library had left a vicious kink in his neck, and a dull thud pounding at his temples. Though he'd be hard-pressed to ever have anything positive to say about the cool, mountain weather, he felt it time to take a short break and get some fresh air.

It was sunny that day, though that did little to temper the ever present chill that very much disagreed with his Tevinter robes. It did, however, distract from his headache as he strolled along the walkway bordering the garden, waiting for the elfroot potion to take effect. He nearly bumped into Mother Giselle as the door to the Skyhold Chanty opened and the elder woman exited.

“Lord Pavus,” she said, the cordiality in her voice almost convincing were it not for the light twitch of a brow. “You must excuse me, I did not see you there.”

“There's no need for apologies,” Dorian replied, “However, I must take slight offense at having failed to capture your notice. I have often been told quite the opposite, on account of my irresistible visage.”

The Chantry mother's tight-lipped expression looked anything but amused.

“Dorian.”

There was a hint of surprise in his voice as Commander Cullen stepped out to join Mother Giselle, clad in his usual attire and somehow managing to appear both in dire need of rest but alert all at once. Dorian wanted to question the Commander's tone but then there was a flicker in Cullen's golden eyes, of something Dorian had never noticed before.

_Want._

“Commander Cullen, you're looking as dashing as ever,” Dorian said, voice dropping to a flirtatious purr. He detected a look of disapproval from Mother Giselle but he cared more about getting a rise out of the ex-templar than placating the Chantry mother's sensibilities with subdued behavior.

The Commander looked away, a faint blush painting his cheeks.

“You're...up early,” he remarked, shifting his weight between his feet. The way his left hand gripped the pommel of his sheathed sword had wild thoughts racing through Dorian's head. He could already picture how those hands would feel gripping a certain appendage and the Commander’s continued bashfulness had him believing he wasn’t the only one privy to such thoughts.

Well, this was new.

It was just before noon, which was early for the Tevinter mage, his reputation for long nights and sleeping in making any appearance before the midday meal a rarity that made a Blight appear common. In fact, he believed it would likely take a Blight before he made any conscious effort to wake at the crack of dawn, battle ready. That, or Lavellan's threat to shave off his mustache if he wasn't seated on his mount by sunrise.

“Such is the punishment that a brilliant mage like myself must endure for the good of the Inquisition,” Dorian said, pausing for a dramatic sigh. “Books upon books of ancient script, and I feel no closer to an answer than I had last week when Lavellan assigned this rather dreary endeavor of Corypheus' true name. It's quite drastically cut into my beauty sleep, and I fear that my devilishly handsome face is but a victim in my never-ending quest for knowledge. Does this look like a new wrinkle to you, Mother Giselle? Be honest now, I shan't have my fragile ego stroked.”

“Your ego is not a thing I would associate with fragility,” Cullen teased.

Dorian exchanged a look with the Commander, lips curving up in a half smirk. The heat that spread over Cullen’s skin made it worth it.

Mother Giselle furrowed her nose distastefully, but Dorian had to commend her for keeping most of the disdain out of her voice. “Concern for one's 'visage' was never the intent of the Maker. Perhaps I should direct you to a verse worth consideration: There is but one truth. All things are known to our Maker and He shall judge their lies.”

“...that is a rather macabre sentiment for a Tuesday morning, you wonderfully cryptic woman.”

“It's Sunday,” Mother Giselle corrected, dryly.

The Commander coughed to hide a smile.

“You must excuse me,” Cullen said, with a polite bow of his head, “but I have a meeting to attend. I wish you success in your continued research on the matter, Dorian.”

And though he tried to shyly duck away as he walked past the mage, gray eyes met gold and the fire in them made it difficult for Dorian to disguise the slight hitch in his breath. For a brief moment, he saw unbridled desire, a carnal lust that awakened a hunger in him he had forced into dormancy since joining the Inquisition.

“Til next time, Commander.”

He told himself that it was not mutual interest that drew his eyes to the Commander's retreating backside.

* * *

  
The first time Dorian broke his own rules, it was during a game of chess.

Dorian tried not to think of what the brief exchange had meant but he would be lying if he claimed it hadn't consumed his thoughts well into the evening. He had promised himself to hold off on the hedonism he had enjoyed back in Tevinter, bedding wealthy altus in brief trysts, in some cases, for want of a bed. Or when coin was available, frequenting dingy brothels to avoid being left out on the street. Those few years outside of Alexius' patronage had been rough, though he at least had his friendship with Maevaris to fall back on each time he hit rock bottom. However, he had made a promise to do better, to be better, after he had joined the Inquisition.

Bedding the commander did not fall in the periphery of doing better.

He tried telling himself it was for the best to not broach the subject. And when appealing to a moral high ground failed, Dorian tried convincing himself that Cullen's southern barbarism was enough to repulse a scion of Tevinter. But his imagination had a will of its own, hands traversing pale skin with scars that told of battles fought and near lost, lips that would worship each blemish the way Cullen's worshipped the Maker's word on Sundays. It became so infuriatingly distracting, the scripts on the pages of texts twisted until they were illegible and biting hard on his lip was all Dorian could do to keep from touching himself in the library.

He was going to ignore this, treat it as the passing fancy that it was.

Yet, when an invitation to join the Commander for a game of chess came but days later, Dorian found himself unable to decline. It had been a while since they had last played, and Dorian could count on one hand the afternoons they spent together in the gazebo. It was by no means out of the ordinary: he may not know the Commander well enough to call him a “friend” but there was a mutual respect and appreciation for each other's company.

So that was how Dorian found himself once more in the garden, sitting across from a rather bashful looking Cullen.

It began with shy glances, a mere, nervous flick of a tongue over a chapped, lower lip that instantly drew his gray eyes to the Commander of the Inquisition. Dorian had almost convinced himself that it had been a fluke the other day, a trick played by the vicious sun, punishing the altus for his refusal to bask in her glory and welcome every day anew. But it was as clear as day the look he was receiving. It was pure _want_ , bathed in golden hues of liquid honey, inviting him to partake in a dance that always left him just a bit more wanting and a lot less satisfied.

He tried to ignore the trill that set his insides aflame, moving his piece across the board in feigned concentration. But he could feel Cullen's eyes following him and when he glanced up at the Commander, he had to once again hide his surprise at how transparent the other man was.

 _Kaffas!_ Since when did Cullen like men?

“I know I make a fine distraction—an unfortunate byproduct of generations of careful breeding. And while I dearly regret having to employ such a tactic—incredibly unfair, as it were—I must insist that you return your focus to the board or I may best you for the first time, Commander,” Dorian purred.

Startled, Cullen quickly averted his eyes, a slow blush growing from his cheeks to his ears. “I—apologies, Dorian. I am a bit…preoccupied.”

“You have seemed distracted as of late,” Dorian said. “But sometimes, a _distraction_  is precisely what one needs.”

Cullen moved his rook a bit too hastily, its new position leaving one of his bishops vulnerable. Dorian wondered if it was some ploy, luring him into a false sense of security, to put him into check. But he could see the slight shaking of the Commander's fingers, a tension filling the space between them as the weight of his implied suggestion settled on Cullen's shoulders.

Cullen wasn't an idiot, though he wore bashful well.

“A distraction,” he said, carefully, weighing the word with the same consideration of a military tactic at the war table.

“Everyone needs a hobby, Commander,” Dorian continued, taking the bishop. There was a smugness in the quirking of his lip. “And I may know a thing or two about discretion.”

As his leg brushed against Cullen's, the Commander inhaled sharply. He nearly dropped his remaining bishop as he moved it across the board. “I see.”

His failure to say anything else on the matter let the mage know Cullen had no desire to take the conversation further.

Dorian made his next move, trying not to let disappointment show on his face. Maybe he was reading the Commander wrong. Or maybe his proposition was too direct. In Minrathous, it would have required more veiled wording, a passing of letters carried between trusted slaves, and inane platitudes on the off chance that the situation called for acknowledging each other in a public setting.

If this was Tevinter, Dorian would be showing his hand and making himself the latest scandal to be picked apart by vultures. He could feel unease settling low in his stomach, the memory of their judgment making the air seem colder.

Silence persisted, Cullen refusing to look at Dorian as his face remained flush. The awkwardness had grown from heated to uncomfortable. Dorian didn't even have the heart to attempt to win any more.

“Check,” Cullen declared.

* * *

  
The first time Cullen kissed him, it was soft, hesitant.

It had been a few weeks since Dorian heard the half-muttered excuses and a retreat upon completion of their game. Cullen had all but fled the gazebo, like a deer escaping a hunter's arrow, and Dorian was left feeling stupid. He had done what he told himself he wouldn't do, slipped into habits he tried to leave behind in Tevinter.

There was some Fereldan expression about not being able to teach an old mabari new tricks—and wasn't that apt, given his failed attempt at bedding one of these southern barbarians. Evidently, the same could be said of Tevinter pariahs.

So it was with a fair amount of surprise that Dorian found himself alone with the commander one evening, the two about to pass each other in a corridor connected to the main hall. Pleasantries had been exchanged the handful of times they had seen each other since, most often when accompanied by other people. Maybe it was the timing of the late evening, the patter of footsteps echoing in the narrow space, that added a layer of tension already thick with the unfulfilled potential of what could be.

Dorian's mask was already in place, needing neither the porcelain nor feathers Orlesians adorned themselves with to hide their true intentions. His was one built in the ballrooms of Minrathous, in every sharp rebuke from his mother that tore into his impressionable naivete while growing up in Qarinus. He knew how to hide his tells even when his pulse was racing.

“Good evening, Commander,” he greeted.

Yet Cullen had never learned of masks, if what he claimed of a simple life in Honnleath was to be believed. The cordial smile on his lips wavered uncomfortably, not quite reaching his eyes as Dorian's aloof tone attempted to mark the course of the quick exchange. It was shaking fingers that gripped Dorian's arm before he could walk by, a pleasant tingle erupting along the mage's arm as he paused and stared questioningly at the Fereldan.

When Cullen said nothing, simply stared, Dorian's impatience and curiosity sliced through the shared tension.

“Commander?”

His arm still felt warm beneath Cullen's hand.

Cullen was contemplative, at war with whatever options made a look of indecision pass over his features. Dorian wanted to interrupt that train of thought once more, to discard his mask and speak with a bluntness that would have had him shunned from most Tevinter social circles, but he was as afraid of his own mouth as he was of the stirring of emotion he was experiencing in the ex-templar's personal space.

Cullen released a shaky breath and it drew Dorian's eyes to those rough, chapped lips that he should have found so abhorrent. But then Cullen leaned in, an exhale ghosting over Dorian's lips, and suddenly he was being kissed the way he imagined a young boy would shyly press his lips to a girl he fancied.

It was chaste and gentle, not at all what Dorian was expecting. If autumn had a flavor, that would be what Cullen tasted like, faded with the loss of youth yet resilient to withstand the oncoming bite of winter. The mask Dorian wore began to slip, the hint of a smile all that he gives away.

“I-I don't know what I'm doing,” Cullen whispered.

Hesitation clipped his voice, a glance down the corridor to see if anyone was around, wary of how it would appear with the two standing so intimately close. Dorian knew this game well enough.

“Then I'll teach you,” the mage promised.

His fingers traced along Cullen's jaw and the hitch of breath sends something in him fluttering. Tilting the Commander's face down towards his, Dorian leaned up and captured the man's lips in a heated kiss.

* * *

 

The first time they had sex, Cullen was so drunk, he could barely stand.

In the past month, Dorian's time was spent between Skyhold and Emprise du Lion, helping the Inquisitor chase down Red Templars in the snowy region. The few days he found himself at the keep, there had been stolen moments: a quick brushing of fingers as him and the Commander exchanged greetings, wanton glances tossed across the courtyard, being kissed hungrily against the stone wall of an empty corridor as the Commander literally stole Dorian's breath from his lungs...

But then the echo of steps would have Cullen pulling away from Dorian, as if he was about to be caught playing with fire. And he really was, every brief touch setting Dorian's skin aflame, burning his way into the mage's head until the need to taste every inch of Cullen's skin became a temptation used by desire demons who plagued what little sleep Dorian found. There were nights he returned to his quarters, hand snaking into his trousers the moment his back hit the sheets, fisting over his cock and stroking hard until Cullen's name became a breathless plea whispered into the darkness of his room. He wanted and want was always the harbinger to his inevitable fall.

It was days after Dorian returned from Emprise du Lion that he was awoken by a loud bang on his door. Dressed in only his trousers, he mumbled a curse under his breath, hoping that this wasn't another attempt by Bull and the chargers to drag him out for a night of drinking at the tavern. The last time he had went with them, he wound up half naked in a game of Wicked Grace and down enough gold to fund a week's worth of drinks with his companions. Bull had it worse but made the most of his nudity with lewd remarks that had even Dalish blushing around her poker face as she cleaned them all out.

To his surprise, Dorian found only a drunken Inquisition Commander, leaning against his door frame and just managing to not tumble forward into the room.

“Commander?” Dorian whispered.

“Dorian,” Cullen slurred.

He had hardly to wait to be invited into the room, Cullen was already crashing into Dorian, his lips finding the mage's in a searing, sloppy kiss. His breath tasted of ale, the scent of sweat and metal sending a delirious ache to Dorian's core. And while the thought of how wrong this all was flitted through Dorian's head, it couldn't silence the rightness of feeling Cullen's cock brush against his through the far too many layers of clothing separating their skin. He was already moaning into Cullen's mouth, hands tugging impatiently to shed the layers, needing, wanting.

As they tumbled naked into Dorian's bed, the Commander's hard body pinning the slender mage into his mattress, Dorian could only whimper as hot, wet kisses haphazardly trailed along his skin. His hands tangled into golden curls, a gasp leaving his lips as Cullen dragged his tongue over one of Dorian's dark, pert nipples.

Hips rutted against hips, cock against cock, and Dorian's name filled the space between them, Cullen whispering it with reverence Dorian had never quite known.

“Want...to be...inside you...” Cullen groaned between kisses.

It was all too sloppy, too hurried, the escalation of whatever was between them reminiscent of the life Dorian had led in Minrathous. Given the general hesitation Cullen displayed in what little affection had been exchanged in secret, Dorian wondered if it was inexperience or discretion that motivated the Commander's behavior. More worryingly, he questioned if inebriation was how the Commander found his confidence to finally fuck Dorian or to bury his shame for engaging in this tryst.

It wouldn't be the first time Dorian's had a paramour use alcohol to silence his own contempt for his baser urges.

When a finger slipped inside of him, pushing, testing, the sting only reminded him how long it's been, how starved he was for it. Dorian's hand blindly reached for the oil he kept on his nightstand, biting down on his lip to keep from crying out as a second finger was added. He had yet to test the stone walls of the keep but wanted to not give them away, not while he still had some of his wits about him. But the ache in him had his voice threatening to spill obscenities, to echo off the walls, the vibration of sound a momentary affirmation of the liaison happening under the noses of the keep's occupants. He was at war with himself and quickly losing.

There may have been too little prep, Cullen's fingers only briefly scissoring in Dorian before he felt the Commander's oiled cock press against his entrance. But as Cullen's erection breached the first ring of muscles, the searing burn sated a hunger in Dorian that had thrummed for months beneath his skin. Cullen buried himself too deep, too quickly in a haste that had Dorian throwing his head back and moaning low in his throat.

It felt good, so fucking good, even if it felt like he was being ripped apart.

It was when Cullen began moving in him, rhythm as uneven as his breathing, that Dorian decided he didn't give a shit if anyone heard them.

It didn't last long, no more than a couple minutes. Once the satisfaction of indulging those urges he had ignored were met, Dorian became only too aware of how...unpracticed Cullen was. There was too much teeth in his kisses, too much weight bearing against Dorian's hips, but there was a refreshing eagerness to how Cullen moved inside him, awe in his moans, more breathless where Dorian's were more voiced, that had Dorian quivering beneath the commander.

It was with a sudden, airy gasp that Cullen's sweat, slicked body tensed, a light shake, and he was spilling into Dorian, head falling into the crook where the mage's shoulder met his neck. With a small shudder, he weakly pumped into the mage a few more times, spilling the remainder of his seed and whispering Dorian's name against his dark skin.

Once he had collapsed on top of the mage, it was some time before either of them moved. Dorian's body ached, his own cock resting full against his abdomen, but all he could do in the moment was card his hands through Cullen's damp curls, quietly spouting random nonsense in Tevene. He found little interest in his own release, only desire to covet as much of the feel of Cullen's arms around him in a rare moment of vulnerability.

He almost voiced his protest when Cullen pulled away from him.

“Dorian, you haven't...”

Even in the dark, Dorian could feel the heat filling the Commander's cheeks, his own shyness unable to voice the word sitting on the edge of his tongue.

“There's no need to worry about me,” Dorian said, flippantly. His cock was only half-hard now anyway and he hardly had the energy to get off.

A sudden awkwardness shifted the air of the room as Cullen sat up. He glanced towards the door hesitantly, then turning to look down at the mage sprawled on the sweat-damp sheets. Dorian could feel cum dribbling down the back of his thigh and somehow, it served as a sobering reminder of exactly what all of this was.

He had a feeling he knew what Cullen was waiting for and sighed, as if having to give word to the terms of their arrangement was a taxing consequence far beneath his station.

“You can go now, Commander,” he all but drawled, a general dismissing his troop.

 _Stay,_ he always wanted to say.

But Dorian knew better.

Turning away from Cullen, Dorian curled up and feigned exhaustion. There was something deplorable about falling into an old pattern and he tried not to let disappointment fester in his chest as he heard Cullen stumble around in search of his clothes. There were many mumbled apologies, the ex-templar babbling and not seeming certain of what he was apologizing for.

It wasn't until he heard the door close behind the Commander that Dorian stirred to wipe away the reminder of Cullen from his skin.

* * *

 The first time Dorian realized he wanted more, he was bent over Cullen's desk.

Months of sneaking into each other's quarters, making excuses to slip away from the tavern when Lavellan was in a celebratory mood, discreet notes passed back and forth with coded messages of where and when their next fucking would take place, and Dorian would like to think he learned to accept that this was how it was always going to be. The more they fucked, the better it got, Cullen's mouth mapping the mage's body, strategically memorizing every contour, every hitch of breath, learning how to make Dorian come apart beneath his fingers. He fucked like he was in the midst of battle, conquering Dorian's body with a vigor that always had the Tevinter gripping his Fereldan lover as he fell, victory claimed each time Cullen released inside of him.

Every time they were spent, clinging to each other in the aftermath of their passion, Dorian savored the kisses Cullen pressed to his collarbone, prolonged their inevitable separation to drink in all that he was allowed to take from the Commander. Once, he felt himself begin to slip into a pleasant slumber, the comfort he found in Cullen's arms enough to lull him to sleep. But the false sense of security had been shattered quickly, the chill of the night air slipping through the holes in the ceiling biting at Dorian's naked flesh when Cullen abruptly pulled away.

“Y-you need to go,” Cullen had whispered harshly.

There was a quiver in his voice that made Dorian's heart sink: fear.

Cullen was afraid to spend the night with him.

He told himself that the words hadn't stung, filling him with a cold kind of rejection that had his cheeks coloring in humiliation as he dressed and slipped away. He had become quite skilled at lying to himself, after all.

But the bough had to break at some point. Months of learning another man's body, devoting himself exclusively to the Commander—though their arrangement allowed Dorian to take any other lover he chose—and Dorian finally had to accept that he was in too deep, desperate to beg for a full meal when all he had been tossed were scraps.

Cullen was buried inside of him, his hips slapping hard against the mage's ass. The debauched echo of skin on skin gets buried beneath the whimpering mess trembling within Cullen's grip, his fingers bruising as they dug into Dorian's hips. Dorian heard objects clatter off the Commander's desk, his elbows scraped raw from where they've been sliding against wood, but he was arching back into Cullen's cock, filled to the brim, and on the point of sobbing the Commander's name if he didn't get his release soon.

The hand that wrapped around and tugged him, firm and raw, milking him until Dorian could feel the building ache in the pit of his gut, had Dorian tumbling over the edge. In a crescendo of heat, he was left shuddering until he was spilling into Cullen's hand, and the half-moaned “ _amatus_ ” became a confession that bounced off the walls of the office.

He was panting and shivering, tightening around Cullen as the Commander rode out the last of his own orgasm, but in Dorian's head, he heard only the Tevene word that unraveled the lie he'd been telling himself.

_Amatus._

_My love._

It hardly mattered that Cullen had no idea what it meant.

* * *

The first time Cullen wore his own mask, it was in the Arbor Wilds.

Dorian tried not to say it, but it became a truth that slipped in the throws of passion, in the moments when he was most vulnerable. It served as a reminder of all he wanted but could never ask for, a temptation that threatened to destroy what little they had. Each time he found himself saying _"amatus_ ”, the kisses Cullen pressed to Dorian's skin would burn with the fallacy of what they were, a fragment of what could be. But each night that he settled beneath his covers, alone, his skin smelling and tasting of Cullen, Dorian had to find solace in the reminder that the things he wanted weren't _right_.

It was in the Arbor Wilds that Dorian had taken a pretty nasty tumble out in the forest as they fought Samson's men. Cassandra immediately struck down the templar whose sword had cut across Dorian's side, opening a vicious, but not deadly, wound that bled through his leathers. He gritted his teeth as Sera and the seeker helped him back to the main encampment, the Inqusitior carrying forward with a few of their companions on towards the elven temple. The pain was dizzying and he may have slipped in and out of consciousness before finding himself in an infirmary bed.

While his wound was being treated and dressed, Cassandra clucked at him for his continued refusal to train with her at Skyhold.

“You left your flank open, and stepped out of position,” she chastised. “Had you taken any of what we had planned seriously, you wouldn't have almost been killed!”

There was a time when Dorian would have believed it was the arrogance of being right and her disapproval of the Tevinter in general that prompted her lecture. But he could see now the hint of frown lines, the wavering of her scowl, and knew it was with genuine concern that she subjected him to her anger.

“A fight isn't a battle map. You can't always predict your enemy's movements, though if you ever develop the talent for it, I hear there is a school of seers up north,” Dorian said, glibly. “Utter rubbish, though you'd be surprised at what bored, wealthy nobles will throw their money at.”

The scowl on Cassandra's face deepened and, yes, maybe Dorian did feel guilty to be so dismissive of his friend's concern.

Curiously, he wondered when did they become friends?

“Yeh need more arrows,” Sera cut in, bouncing off the edge of Dorian's cot. “Or something more stabby than that magic stick ya carry around.”

“Staff,” Dorian corrected.

Cassandra hissed as poultice was applied to a wound she had received on her left arm while saving Dorian. She sat on the cot beside his, the small tent feeling a bit crowded with the three of them and the healer all tucked inside. It had been set up specifically for the inquisitor's inner circle, should any of them sustain injury during the assault.

So when the flap to the tent was thrust open, and a rather flushed Commander Cullen briskly entered, it was fair to declare it crowded but Dorian was too distracted by the Commander's appearance. He was nearly out of breath, leaning on one of the wooden posts holding up the tent, sweat trickling down his face and armor soiled with drying blood.

“Thank the Maker. You're alive,” he whispered, a flicker of something Dorian had never seen in those golden eyes before.

His throat felt heavy, words sticking and failing to come out. The mage wanted to reach out, grasp Cullen's hand, run his fingers through those golden locks, whisper against the commander's skin the confessions he's only ever said in his native tongue, when flesh was pressed against heated flesh.

“Course she's alive. It's only a scratch, really,” Sera said, shrugging.

And then Cullen was kneeling before Cassandra's cot, gripping her good hand and giving it a squeeze.

Dorian felt a vicious tug in his chest.

“I had heard one of the inner circle was injured,” the Commander explained, with a bit of embarrassment.

“I'm quite alright, Cullen,” Cassandra said, with a rare smile.

Dorian recognized the sudden bite of jealousy, though he knew there was no reason for it. Cassandra and Cullen were incredibly close, sharing an intimacy that challenged the affection the ex-templar had for his own blood siblings. But the openness at which Cullen took Cassandra's hand made Dorian's fingers flex instinctively and the yearning to be touched in such a way made him aware of how trapped he was in the self-made prison of their arrangement.

“How is Lord Pavus?” Cullen asked the healer.

It was polite but indirect, the sting of not even being addressed by the man whose cock he frequently sucked spurring a wave of hurt that curdled deep in his veins.

“A surface wound but with enough bed rest, he should recover soon, Commander,” the healer said. She shuffled through the pouch of supplies she carried and sighed. “If you will excuse me, Commander and Madame Seeker, I must retrieve more elfroot.”

Cassandra stood up, following the healer towards the exit. “I must report to Leliana about the inquisitor. Undoubtedly, she will have questions.”

She threw a curious look at Cullen before leaving the tent, perhaps finding it odd that he wasn't also accompanying her. Commander Cullen made to leave, rising to his feet, but paused. He looked over to Dorian, words measured and careful.

“I'm pleased to see you haven't suffered any serious injuries, Lord Pavus.”

“He's less dead than the very dead arse-face who got him,” Sera added, rather unhelpfully.

The reminder of her presence in the tent added a visible tension to the Commander's already stiff posture.

“As far as 'arse-faces' go, I'd say that one is very dead indeed,” Dorian said, forcing his lips to quirk. “Could have used more arrows.”

“Now yer talking,” Sera said, picking up her bow. “I'm gonna go get some!”

Predictably, Sera's general inattentiveness and ability to jump between subjects, gave the injured mage and his lover a moment of privacy that Dorian was no longer all that certain he wanted. Not when invoking his family name to impress upon their companions a lack of intimacy between the two made Dorian feel more spurned than an outright rejection.

Once the two of them were alone, Dorian looked at Cullen, expression neutral but eyes swimming with something he wanted answered. He could see the commander shuffle awkwardly, reminiscent of the earlier days when they began seeking enjoyment in each other's flesh, but he was too well-versed in the illusion of nonchalance to break it. The Tevinter had learned the hard way to never wear his heart on his sleeve.

“I knew,” Cullen admitted. “And so, I came. I had to be sure—I wanted to...”

But he looked lost, conflicted. It was sitting there on the edge of his tongue but Cullen couldn't bring himself to say it.

His fingers twitched at his side. There was a truth left unsaid, startling and bare, tearing the lie they had created for themselves. Hope flared in Dorian's chest, a shallow intake of breath that shook like a confession, but he dared not end their game until Cullen said it, until Cullen _chose_  him because Dorian would be damned if he lets himself fall again for unspoken promises.

“Dorian, I—” Cullen started, gloved fingers brushing Dorian's.

“Commander?”

His hand flinched away. Cullen paused to inhale deeply, then turned to address the scout who had entered the tent.

“You're needed on the front line,” the scout said, with a quick salute.

He looked back at the mage, face unreadable but for the defeat in his eyes. Dorian had taught him to wear masks.

“I wish you a swift recovery, Lord Pavus.”

The speed at which he left made Dorian's vision sting, though he tried to tell himself it was only a headache.

And that was when Dorian knew it wasn't enough.

* * *

The first time Dorian realized it was over, Skyhold was on the brink of the final assault.

It shouldn't have surprised him when Cullen stopped seeking him out.

It was hard to notice at first. With the war against Corypheus reaching a final confrontation, Dorian was away more often. In the time he spent at Skyhold, there were at first days without so much as a word from Cullen. Then it became weeks. Both of them were busy, so busy that they hadn't arranged to play chess or join their companions at the tavern for drinks whenever it met the inquisitor's fancy.

It was when those weeks became months without Cullen's touch that Dorian became fully aware of what was going on.

He was undecided at whether to acknowledge it, knowing it best to let this die. Affairs fizzled all the time and addressing the loss of their routine would only bring to light the reasons they no longer sought each other.

But his brain had stopped listening at some point, memories of the feel of Cullen a poison that clouded his sensibilities with _want_  of something more. It became overpowering, palatable to a point that surprised him, and wasn't he flirting with death as it was, taking on an ancient darkspawn?

It was what brought Dorian to Cullen's office late one evening, swaying from a drunken stupor, eyes bloodshot and breath reeking of cheap wine.

He expected shock in those golden eyes, or maybe even irritation for dealing with an ex-lover who couldn't take a hint. What Dorian hadn't been expecting was a man so finished with everything, it aged him nearly a decade.

There was a bone-deep weariness to Cullen, a haggardness marked by the lines in his face. And Dorian knew that he was _tired_ , tired in a way that whispered of the death that had been creeping outside their indulgence, of the inanity of distraction when neither of them could be certain they would even be alive at the end of the week.

It all suddenly seemed superfluous because it didn't _matter_.

Yet Dorian was riding a wave of stubbornness that wanted him to press, to twist his fingers further into the wound, deepening the cut so he could just damn well feel _something_  instead of the crushing emptiness that welcomed him each night he retired alone to bed.

“Good evening, Commander,” he slurred.

The pity in Cullen's eyes made bile rise in Dorian's throat.

“I...wasn't expecting anyone this evening.”

It was careful in a way that Dorian's demeanor wasn't. There may have been an underlying warning to end this conversation before words were exchanged, the kind neither could take back, but still the mage pressed.

“It's been a while,” he tried again, the dread of unveiling any flicker of longing wrapping his confidence like a thin sheen of ice exposed to the early spring sun. It was déjà vu that fueled the urge to desist, a scene he had witnessed one too many times before in hidden corners of gilded rooms, words that once caressed his ears like fine silk becoming sharper than an assassin’s blade.

Cullen swallowed. “I've noticed.”

“Prior to this untimely interruption, I had presumed that my presence has been missed—I'd always considered myself quite the _conversationalist_ and you, dear Commander, are often in need of a good _conversation_.”

He tried for coy, his body language as seductive as his tone, circling Cullen's desk. Fingers traced the surfaces of documents piled along its edges, his own balance kept carefully in check, until he was standing on the other side, in front of the Commander. Giving no indication of responding, Dorian's voice carried a poise he no longer felt, even as he continued. “However, given that you've always lacked the necessary aptitude to carry a discussion beyond “troops movements” and “Maker, that's good, don't stop”, I am now more inclined to believe the opposite.”

He tried for a careless laugh but even his humor was marred by his pretense, stifled by the look on Cullen's face, unamused to hear words uttered during their intimacy used so heedlessly in his office.

“There have been more pressing matters that have taken up my time, regrettably.”

It wasn't the apology he was looking for, nothing in the Commander's tone refuting what Dorian had said.

 _Tell me I'm wrong_.

“Have you grown bored of me, _amatus_?”

He couldn't be certain where he found the courage to voice the one fear that had been poisoning his train of thought. Like deathroot coursing through his veins, there was a hysteria—a sudden panic—gripping him in a vice until he felt he couldn't breathe.

Cullen was unable to meet his gaze, turning away with an unreadable expression on his face. But in the split moment before his eyes retreated, Dorian felt an unsettling, familiar quiver that numbed him as he recognized the look in those golden eyes: regret.

The silence stretched into long minutes, Dorian's insides tightening as all he could do was stare helplessly at the man who dared make him _hope_. Though he kept his expression cool, he recalled years of stolen glances at Tevinter balls, the whispers of promises later to be broken peppered over his skin each time he succumbed to another romp in silken bedspreads. It was in Cullen's refusal to answer that Dorian found himself once more in Minrathous, the sting of his father's disapproval branded as deep into his skin as the insatiable ache in his chest.

When the silence was finally broken, Cullen's voice cut the air with the swiftness of one of his blades.

“Dorian.”

The apology in his voice was enough to bring the mage to his knees.

Fingers fumbled with the laces of worn trousers, not ignorant of but also not acknowledging the quick intake of breath. It was a digression to the tension that reigned, a tactic Dorian employed when unable to face the inevitable. It was his own version of chess, the mask his facade, sex the only language he knew how to speak when the emotions broiling under his skin were silenced by his own need to be needed. And right now, he had Cullen in check.

“You shouldn’t-”

Maybe Cullen wanted to protest further, feeble as it was. His hands tried weakly to push Dorian away but the fight had already left them both. Most likely, he knew the futility of it all.

When Dorian's mouth slid over Cullen's mostly flaccid cock, he heard the sigh of defeat. The tremors in the fingers that tangled into Dorian's disheveled locks shook with the same tempo as the mage's uneven pulse, the prickling he felt at the corner of his eyes a mere afterthought to the working of his jaw. A few quick strokes of the Commander's thick shaft and he was at full mast, a hand on Dorian's shoulder steadying him.

“Maker, why do you do this to me?” Cullen groaned, every appreciative noise a byproduct of self-contempt.

Their awkward exchange was forgotten, replaced with a shame that Dorian had years of growing accustomed to. All it took was the hollowing out of his cheeks and the lascivious moans before Cullen was unraveling in his mouth, his seed as bitter as his silent rejection.

For once, there were no apologies. Hands gripping the edge of his desk, Cullen bent his head, shoulders hunched as if shielding his body from whatever curse Dorian was about to inflict on him.

“Leave.”

There was an edge to Cullen's voice.

Dorian was on his feet, swaying to find any kind of balance. Cum dribbling from his lips, he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He knew how pathetic he looked, stretching this moment in desperation for any other outcome, but Dorian always succumbed to his own cowardice, unable to voice the words he had come to speak.

When the tension became unbearable, Cullen broke it. “I can't do this anymore.”

“Of course,” Dorian said, wounded pride dripping venom into his tone. “I suppose with services rendered, there's no more need for your fucking distraction.”

“I haven't the energy to argue about this, Dorian.”

But Dorian wanted an argument. He wanted anything other than the contained rage with which Cullen regarded him, the ex-templar's own mask unpracticed in the art of indifference. Dorian could see his cracks and he wanted to shatter them, to make the Commander feel as pitiful and used as he felt.

“Was it desperation or loneliness that made you come to me all those months before?”

The chair behind them clattered angrily to the floor, Cullen's fists shaking at his sides. Dorian avoided the urge to step away, steel in his eyes as he stared down the ex-templar. The only indication of his fear the subtlest of flinches when Cullen had taken his anger on the unsuspecting office furniture.

“I. Said. _Leave_.”

The finality in his tone left little room for argument. And while Dorian was testing boundaries, he felt this was one line he had no desire to cross further. He knew better than to remain on a sinking ship.

“Then I guess there's nothing left unsaid.” In a show of levity, he bowed with a flourish, somehow avoiding toppling over. “Have a goodnight, _Commander._ ”

And just for the sake of pettiness, Dorian flung one of the door's wide open, making no effort to close it as he stumbled out. He would afford himself this one victory, as hollow as it felt.

Once he returned to his room, he made for the chamber pot, relieving the contents of his stomach. Covered in sick, the putrid scent of bile and cum an invasion on his delicate senses, he let the mask slip, knowing his dignity wouldn't suffer the scrutiny of curious gazes in the confines of his chambers. With a low moan, he curled onto his side, the frigidity of the hard stone seeping through his clothes.

It was the weight of everything they never were that finally made him crack.


End file.
